Wanting More
by molescout
Summary: Molly Hooper never thought she'd ever see the day where a visit from Sherlock wouldn't excite her. She just couldn't do this anymore. It was time to move on and that's exactly what she was going to do, no matter how hard it would be to do it. Rated M for sexuality.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Here's something I've been working on for a while. It's not particularly creative or original but it's done in a style I haven't seen too often in the Sherlock fandom. It's a departure from my constant smut, though it doesn't lack in sexuality. It will take place in two parts. With that said, I hope you enjoy it.

**Wanting More**

Here she was again as she'd been many times in the past three years. This time found her on her hands and knees while he held her tightly with one arm around her waist, the other used to support him as he slickly slid within her. His lips rested on her shoulder, not kissing because he never kissed her. He'd lick her when he wanted to or nip when the desire struck him but mostly his mouth remained removed from her body, never straying to her lips.

The position didn't matter. He rarely took her in the same way twice in a row. No, he would probably consider that boring. Which brought up a good point, why had he not yet grown bored of her, of this? Instead, he'd show up to her flat like clockwork, after a case had been solved. They'd have some tea, maybe wine, and then he'd ask rather matter-of-factly if he could take her to bed.

That's how it always started, with some plainly put words as to what he wanted and she always acquiesced. Well, it's not how it always started. At least that's not how it had been the first few times. This all started after his fall. Not right away, of course, he'd been a bit too banged up to accomplish much more than eating and sleeping, too many broken ribs, broken cheek, not to mention the widespread deep tissue bruising that had resulted from his five story plummet. The drugs she'd given him could only prevent his body from being tense as it hit, it couldn't turn his body to rubber. To this day, it still amazed her that he'd survived or that she'd had the physical strength to get him all the way from Bart's to her flat. The only explanation she could conceive was something akin to adrenaline and mothers lifting cars off their children in moments of panic.

No, interactions like these hadn't even started before he left her flat for the fist time three weeks after the fall. They'd started when he'd returned six months later. She distinctly remembered how lost he'd looked, how utterly alone. The feelings were palpable and had tugged on her heart so deeply that she'd actually felt physical pain just looking at him.

She'd made him tea as he sat on her couch. Though describing his position as sitting would have been generous. He'd more buried himself in the corner, his legs drawn up under his chin and both arms wrapped around them. The sight couldn't have been more pitiful. She'd sat next to him when he'd refused to break his cocoon to take the tea, instead she started to slowly rub circles into his back.

They sat like that for over an hour before he finally came out of his mind and looked at her. The first words to come out of his mouth since his return both stunned and confused her, "You know who I am?" She answered with the most obvious, hoping it's what he wanted to hear.

"Of course. You're Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective."

He looked away, seemingly staring into space. "Was."

"I don't underst…"

"There aren't any consulting detectives currently."

"There will be again," she said quietly, still rubbing circles into his back. That's when he looked at her again, really looked at her.

She'd understood then what it was and why he'd asked it of her. She was his only link, his only bastion of freedom in a world he was having to fight everyday just to remain alive, not to mention, to keep his 'family' alive. That's very much what they were, Mrs. Hudson, DI Lestrade and John Watson, his family. She wasn't a part of that group, she knew that even then but she was something. It had been enough, to be needed by that man. She'd said yes when he'd asked her for comfort in his truly Sherlock sort of way.

The first time had been on her couch. The act was done slowly and was drawn out as he tried to drown out the rest of the world in the only person who still knew he was alive and who'd never questioned the truth of him. She'd been his anchor to his old life, the only thing keeping him grounded, that kept him from breaking apart and giving up. That had meant so much to her back then, to know how needed she really was. It didn't matter that he wasn't making love to her, because he didn't love her. It didn't matter that she was letting him use her like he always had. Maybe she'd been foolish to let it start and even more foolish to let it continue. The alternative of turning him away and feeling responsible if he actually broke was what made her say yes the first time and never let her say no each time after. And to be completely honest, she never wanted to say no.

During the two years it took him to fight back in order to regain his old life and to clear his name, he'd come back to her periodically to lose himself in her physically, thereby holding onto his past life emotionally. After the first time, he always wore protection despite her being on the pill. That didn't bother her. He never kissed her or offered any of the normal endearments during the act and that didn't bother her either. At least, none of that bothered her until he actually came back.

He'd reintroduced himself to the world with a flourish, aided by his brother's vast connections. She'd thought their odd relationship had come to an end now that he'd won his life back. He wouldn't need her as his anchor any longer. He had John again, who fully forgave him after a few months. He had Mrs. Hudson again, who forgave him immediately and he had DI Lestrade who forgave him after Sherlock took care of a few unsolved cases for him.

He wouldn't need her anymore, not like that anyway. He'd need his pathologist again, sure, but not the connection.

She'd been wrong.

Three weeks after his reintroduction, he'd come to her and asked her again if he could share her bed. She should have asked why but in her own foolish way, she'd just been relieved that he hadn't cast her off. So it continued. For a year until now, he'd come to her a couple of times each week when he wasn't working cases. No one knew.

She wasn't sure when it started to bother her or what aspect of it did. She remembered realizing one time when he'd shown up at her flat that she wasn't excited to see him. She'd been surprised by that. She never would have thought that she, Molly Hooper, ever would have NOT been excited to be visited by this man. But she wasn't. She didn't turn him away but it was the first time she'd had to make the excuse that sometimes a woman just doesn't get wet, it just happened.

That sort of thing happened more frequently until she just purchased herself a small bottle of personal lubricant. He accepted her explanations, at least he seemed to. For as easy a time as he had reading others, he was a closed book to her most of the time.

Last week, she'd come to a decision. This couldn't go on. She couldn't even define what 'this' was. Everything else had finally gone back to normal. He took cases, he solved cases, he visited the morgue for her help with experiments and asked her to get him coffee. He no longer lived with John, since his friend had gotten married, but he still lived at 221b Baker Street, a place she'd only been to a few times. Once for Christmas and a few times to visit with John after Sherlock's 'death' but never with the man himself. She'd never been in his room, let alone his bed. No, they kept this strictly to her flat, her bed.

He'd been on a case until today, but once he'd solved it, he'd headed here. She'd been expecting him. Though she wasn't quite sure why she did it, she'd gotten dressed up nicely, fixed her hair as best she could and even put on a bit of makeup. Some take out sat on the kitchen table with two poured glasses of wine when his expected knock came at the door. He'd hesitated before entering, obviously the wheels were turning on why she'd gone to so much trouble with her appearance, though he said nothing about it before entering.

She hadn't given him a chance to make a move as she ushered him into the kitchen for some food. It's been a couple of days since he'd eaten so he hadn't put up any resistance, even drinking half of the wine she'd poured for him. When they'd finished, she just took his hand and led him to her room. That's how they'd gotten to the point they were at now.

He was now grunting above her, his fingers playing between her thighs as he sought to draw the pleasure that wasn't going to happen for her. She could tell he was holding off, so she made it easy for him.

"Don't worry about me," she'd encouraged, "just come." She felt him nod and speed up his pace even though he continued to toy hopelessly with her clit. He came a minute later with a groan, resting a little more of his weight on her but not too much before he removed his sweat slickened chest from its contact with her back. Pulling out of her, he rested on his heels as she turned over and grabbed a folded tee off the nightstand to cover up with. She knew he was watching her, taking in every new move she made. Usually, she just lay down or buried under the covers if it was cold. He studied her until she brought her eyes up to his. That's when he slid off the bed to dispose of the condom he wore in the bathroom wastebasket.

He stopped just inside the door and that same look was back. He was deducing her but by the way his brow was furrowed, he wasn't finding the answers he was looking for. Finally, he just asked.

"Something has changed."

Molly steeled herself, drawing a deep breath in preparation for what she was about to say. She'd thought this through a thousand times and each time; she had no idea how he would react. It was time to find out.

"I can't do this anymore."

His expression didn't change at all, it was almost as if it were frozen that way on his face.

"Of course you can. There is nothing preventing you from doing so."

Ever the one to use semantics but she didn't let it phase her.

"Ok, it's not that I can't, it's that I don't want to anymore."

"Why?" that frozen face asked her.

"Because I'm not like you. I need more than this."

"What else do you need?"

How did she explain it to someone like him? Anything she said he wouldn't understand, not really. His mind didn't work like a normal person's. The things she wanted in life; love, companionship, a family of her own, would all be things that he abhorred. But what else could she tell him? Nothing. So she went for the truth.

"I'm 37. If I want a family, I have to start working towards that. I don't want to do something like kids alone and I know that's not something you want."

He said nothing.

"I have to start looking for someone who wants to do that with me and I can't do that if I'm doing this with you."

"And this was why you altered your normal appearance and why we had dinner? This was your way of 'letting me down' so to speak?"

She nodded.

"Alright," he said coldly, his expression finally changing but only into something completely blank. "I won't bother you with this anymore." There was an edge to his voice that she couldn't identify. It might have been annoyance or anger but she couldn't tell.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"Don't be. It was bound to come to a stop at some point. I just never thought it would be you who ended it."

That stung. It had been a long time since he'd been careless with his words around her but maybe this wasn't carelessness. Maybe this was purposeful. Either way, it didn't matter; this was happening and it needed to.

"Well, I'll just be going then." And he did after he gathered his clothes and redressed.

She felt hollow once the door to her flat shut.

Life continued on after that and finally it seemed as if things had really gone back to normal. Molly continued to work at Bart's and Sherlock continued to take cases that occasionally required her assistance. They were cordial with one another, she still got him coffee, usually without his needing to ask but there was a stiffness between them. She'd thought that it wasn't noticeable to anyone else until the day John pulled her aside while Sherlock was absorbed in his research. He'd wanted to know if anything was wrong. She denied that anything was and after that, she tried to put on a better show for everyone else.

About five months after their 'relationship' ended, Molly actually did meet someone. He was a nice fellow that worked for a medical consulting firm. Mark was intelligent and kind. He took her to dinner and the movies, made her feel beautiful in a way that she hadn't in a very, very long time and she felt comfortable with him. That's when she was able to stop pretending that she was happy and actually was. That's also when Sherlock started really acting like his old self again, except worse. He'd make scathing deductions about her or her work at odd times and no amount of scolding from John was making him stop. It wasn't until she, for the first time ever, told them both to get out of her morgue that the abuse stopped.

It stopped because Sherlock stopped coming around entirely. At first, she thought he must have found a different venue for his experiments and research for cases but when John came by her office one day alone, she found out the truth. Sherlock had stopped taking cases. He'd done it before. She remembered long stints, weeks at a time, where he wouldn't work. She also knew that he'd filled those times with drugs until he'd finally checked himself into rehab and gotten clean.

John was worried about him, about the way he was acting and hoped that she knew something about it. She could tell about halfway through the visit that he knew she wasn't telling him everything. He might not have been Sherlock but John Watson was no idiot.

"Tell me what you know, Molly. Please. I've never seen him like this. Mrs. Hudson says that all he does is play his violin and nap on his couch. Something's wrong and I can't help him if I don't know what it is. You know how stubborn he is, so I'm not going to get anything out of him but if you know something…"

"I really don't know, John. I wish I did but I don't." It was true in a sense. She didn't know what was wrong with him. She could speculate that it had something to do with her but the man had never said a word about anything outside of his work to her since she'd put an end to their liaisons. She couldn't read his mind anymore than John could. Telling John about the sex wouldn't do him any good anyway. What would it change? Even if it were the root cause of why Sherlock was acting the way he was, what was the solution? Would John plead that she change her mind? Would that even work? It wouldn't work for her, that part she knew for sure. She was finally happy with a relationship, happy with Mark, and she wasn't going to throw it away because one consulting detective, who'd never been able to treat her as anything but a convenient release, suddenly couldn't deal with celibacy. So mum she remained.

Another two weeks passed and still no sign of Sherlock. She worried about him but she let her new relationship push it away to the corners of her mind where the idea sulked just like she imagined the detective himself was. She'd gone out with Mark almost eight times and was finally ready to share her bed with another man. After dinner, she was going to invite him back to her place and see where it led from there. That's where she'd be in a few hours but first; she needed to finish the paper work of her last autopsy. An hour later, she shut off her computer, gathered up her things and left her office. She almost screamed in alarm when she saw Sherlock standing at the door to the laboratory, the same door she needed to pass through before she could leave. He looked terrible. His hair was too long and his suit wasn't pristine as they always were when he wore them. His features were drawn, like he hadn't been eating despite the fact that he wasn't on any cases but his expression… it was that same cold expression he'd worn the last time he'd left her flat.

"You're going to sleep with him."

Her mouth dropped open. How could he possibly know that? She recovered a few seconds later and gripped her purse a little tighter. He knew the same way he knew anything, some tiny details here and there must have tipped him off. Maybe it was the way she was walking or the way she'd done her hair. Maybe he'd seen something in the bin that led to his uncanny deduction. She didn't know what it was since she didn't have a mind like his but she did know it wasn't any of his business. So she said as much.

"That's not something I'm willing to discuss with you, Sherlock. Now is there a reason for your being here besides that?"

He didn't respond to anything she said, instead speaking his mind as he saw fit, as he always did.

"You turned me away but you'll let that loathsome…"

"Stop. Stop right now. I don't want to know one thing you've deduced about him. Not. One. Thing."

His expression changed then to one of annoyance. He didn't like being cut off mid thought, he never had.

"Why are you here?"

Silence.

"I really don't have time for this, Sherlock," she admonished as she started for the door. He didn't move an inch so she had to scoot around him but the moment her hand gripped the knob, his hand fastened tightly to her wrist, stopping her. He didn't do anything else, just kept her from leaving. "Sherlock, let me go." Again, he said nothing, didn't even look at her, his eyes remaining glued to where he was touching her.

She sighed and reached out to pry his fingers off of her. "I have to go." That's when she heard him mumble something so quietly that she couldn't make it out. "What did you just say?"

For a moment it seemed as if he wasn't going to respond once more but finally she heard him. "I don't want you to."

It only pissed her off.

"You're so damned selfish, you know that?" She saw him nod, still only looking at the hand that held her. "And what about what I want, Sherlock?"

"I want you to want me again, like you used to."

Her breath caught in her throat. "I'm not that girl anymore," she whispered.

"I made her go away, made you change, didn't I?"

"A lot of things did."

"But mostly because of me, because of how I am."

"Sherlock…"

"I tried," he whispered out pathetically and for the first time since he'd taken hold of her, he looked into her eyes. She was floored by the unguarded quality of them. Were his eyes really as red as she thought they were? Did it really look like he was about to cry?

"You didn't try hard enough."

"Neither did you."

The pity she'd been feeling was immediately replaced by indignation. "Excuse me?"

"You never told me what you wanted. You never asked for anything to change. You didn't ask me for anything until you asked me to leave and so I did the only thing you ever asked me to do."

"I…"

"You never said you wanted me to escort you to dinner. You never tried to take me to some ridiculous theater for an equally ridiculous movie. You never asked me to play my violin for you or ask to come to Baker Street. You never did any of those things. I was the only one that ever asked and I was only willing to ask what I knew you would give, had given in the past." He let her go then and strode away from her as if being near her had suddenly become too much for him, like standing too close to a hot fire and needing relief from it. For her part, Molly had become a mute, far too stunned with this revelation to form thoughts, let alone words.

"I thought that if I asked for more," he looked back at her briefly before he continued to frantically survey the room, "that you would think I was asking for too much."

The next words came out of her mouth without her thinking them, almost on instinct. "What would you have asked for?"

He stopped moving then, his whole body going rigid, arms pressed tightly to his sides as his hands formed tight fists. He was in obvious agony. He was obviously so far out of his depth right now, resulting in the feeling that he had no control. Anyone could see that as clear as they could see the sun on a cloudless midsummer day. He mumbled his answer again.

"What?" she asked tentatively.

"I would have asked to kiss you!" he shouted at the back wall, anger seeping into his voice. "Are you happy? The great Sherlock Holmes brought so low that he has to plead for the affection of the only person who he never thought would stop believing in him?"

"Of course I'm not happy." She could feel the pressure behind her eyes and the ache in her throat as she said it. She jumped when he whirled around on her, pain evident in every facet of his being.

"Then why did you discard me?"

"I didn't…"

"You did. I was there and I recall it quite clearly, Molly. You are not like me and you needed more than me." He pinched the bridge of his nose then and tightly shut his eyes. "I wasn't enough for you. I always knew I wasn't good enough for you, Molly but I thought…" He didn't finish; instead he rubbed at his eyes with the fingers of one hand for a moment. "And now you've found someone that is enough for you?"

He opened his eyes to look at her earnestly; it was an answer he seemed desperate to know.

"He's…" But what could she say? What did she say when she'd just discovered, that this whole time, what she really wanted might have actually been right in front of her but they'd both just been the world's biggest idiots and bolloxed the whole thing? "I didn't know." It was lamely said and lamely worded. She felt how her cheeks reddened and she felt as the first tear slipped down her cheek.

"You didn't know that I needed you?"

She shook her head, too ashamed to look up at what were most certainly accusing eyes. She heard his footsteps and saw his scuffed shoes when he stopped in front of her. She also saw his hand rise from his side and nearly cringed when his fingertips brushed at the wetness on her cheek.

"I did," he said quietly. "You were everything that was right when everything else was so wrong. I thought you knew that."

"I did." She finally looked at him; she wanted him to see just how much she understood that part, that she hadn't been wrong about that at least. "I did know that but when everything got better, when you came back with your name cleared and with John and Mrs. Hudson and Greg all safe again, I just… Well, I wasn't the only thing good in your life anymore."

"You didn't stop being important. You still mattered to me." He closed his eyes. "You still do, more than anything, Molly. More than experiments or cases. More than anyone else combined."

Her heart was thundering in her chest and she couldn't hold back the chocked sob his confession brought out.

"I'm doing it again. I'm hurting you again, aren't I?"

She shook her head as she tried to get her emotions under control. God, she hated when they got the better of her.

"No, we're both just such idiots though." He looked confused at that and she just knew he was about to say something scathing as a retort. There was no way he could remain Sherlock Holmes and not, so she decided, quite spontaneously, to head him off at the pass. She took advantage of how close he was to her by reaching up with both hands, cupping his cheeks and pulling him down into a kiss.

Whatever quip he'd been formulating never made it past his lips. She might have kept him from acting like a git but he did not react like a dime store romantic hero either. He just stood there stiffly. If her eyes had been open, she was almost certain that his would be wide open as he tried to figure out just what the hell she was doing. When she pulled away and finally did open her eyes, that's exactly the sight that met her. Deep furrows between his eyes said it all but the way his eyes had trained on her lips said something else.

"You didn't ask," he said quietly.

"No, I didn't," she responded in kind.

At that moment, her phone began to chime in her pocket. She sighed and stepped away from him while he stayed stock-still. She almost cursed when she saw the name on the screen. She sent an apologetic look at Sherlock before she turned away and answered.

"Hi, Mark." She walked to the back of the lab as she rushed through the conversation, guilt gnawing at her from both sides. When she finished the call, she turned to find him gone. In that moment, Molly felt as if all her strength was leaving her. She sat down on the nearest stool, buried her face in her palms and cried.

End of Part 1

Insecurity and poor communication were definitely the two main ingredients for this angsty story's first half. So what did you think? Too much? I hope that it at least entertained you for a few minutes.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Thank you so much for the amazing response to this fic. It has been incredibly flattering. Also, I listened to "...og lengra" by Olafur Arnalds while I wrote this. I just fits the tone of this chapter perfectly (if you're into listening to music while you read).

**Home**

He stood outside of her door again. It was always her door. All of his things may have been stored at Baker Street, his suits, his skull and his violin but it wasn't his home any longer. It hadn't been since his rather impressive leap off of the roof of Saint Bart's almost three years prior. At least it didn't feel like home anymore. For two years, he'd had to avoid it completely and by the time it was his again, it was just too quite, too empty since John had gone off and rashly gotten himself married. He'd tried to make it home again, he'd tried for three weeks but one night, after a long and what he thought aimless walk, he found himself right where he was standing now.

When she'd opened the door that night, he knew. He finally knew something that he hadn't let himself realize for the past two years. This was his home. But it wasn't the flat that made it so. It wasn't the items in it. It wasn't her uncomfortable little couch that he'd first taken her on. It wasn't her ancient telly or her cramped, outdated little kitchen.

It was her.

The realization should have terrified him, well, it did terrify him but not in the way he always thought he would be if he one day found himself irrevocably attached to another human. He'd always been repulsed by what he saw in others. The way they clung to one another for support because they were too emotionally weak to stand on their own. That's the sort of terror, the sort of revulsion, he expected but it's not the one that met him. Instead, the only thought that passed was fear, actual fear, at an intensity he hadn't known since Baskerville, was that she might not always want him.

He knew she loved him, that she had for a very long time but that did nothing to assuage his fear. He'd seen people who claimed love for another be the ones to cause their loved one far more pain than anyone else around them. But Molly was sweet, and loyal. She would never hurt him, would she? She was the one that welcomed him back after those first six months. She was the one that knew him when no one else did or could.

"Of course, you're Sherlock Holmes, the worlds only consulting detective."

"Was," he'd said and it had been far more painful to say that he'd thought it would be.

"I don't underst…" But he'd cut her off, in no mood to hear what she didn't understand about him.

"There aren't any consulting detectives currently," he'd said but it was what he hadn't said that tore at him the most. 'There likely wouldn't be any ever again.' He really believed that after those first hellish six months. He'd done so many horrible things just so he could try to scrape together his life again, one he often thought was lost to him forever.

"There will be again." She'd said it with such absolute assuredness that it had stopped his mind completely. She really believed that. There wasn't a hint of a doubt in her tone, her words or her expression. Somehow she knew, she knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would succeed. For the first time since his conversation with Moriarty on the roof, he saw hope.

So no, of course Molly would never hurt him. She was the only one that would never lose faith in him. It certainly hadn't looked like she could that night, the first night he came back to her after returning from the ranks of the dead. She'd looked so relieved to see him. In that moment, he wondered what she had been thinking for those past three weeks since his return. She probably thought the same thing he had, that everything could now return to as it was. The relief he saw in every aspect of her face and posture made him feel so much better. It told him that she hadn't wanted _everything_ to go back as it had been. She still wanted him.

She saw him, she wanted him and she had never lost faith in him. In that moment, he'd wanted to pull her into his body and never let her go. This was the sentiment he'd always abhorred, always ridiculed in others but now that he'd succumbed to it, he no longer cared.

He hadn't pulled her to him, despite the strong desire to do so. He'd also wanted to kiss her but this wasn't the first time he'd had that urge. He hadn't let himself do it before, knowing that partaking in such an act would turn what they did from merely sex to something far deeper. During his 'death', he didn't want something deeper, something that could seriously hurt her if he failed and never came back but now that he was alive again, he didn't want to do anything that might cause her change her mind. He would let her dictate this… relationship. He would keep to what he knew she approved of, what she liked. That night he'd walked in and she'd told him how happy she was for him, for everything he'd accomplished and regained but all he could think about was how much he liked that rosy hue on her flushed cheeks.

She'd smiled at him when he'd finally asked to have her again, oh that smile. He might have smiled himself but he couldn't remember anything about that night but her. For the first time, he let himself truly acknowledge just how much he liked everything about her. For instance, he liked the way she unbuttoned his shirt with her delicate fingers as her tongue poked out slightly from between her lips. He liked how her breath hitched when he first touched her bare skin with his hands and the way she moaned when he'd cup her small, but not too small breasts. He liked the way shuddered when he'd first press into her, her breath catching right before she sighed out a long, beautiful moan.

Yes, that night he catalogued everything about Molly Hooper that he liked and stored it away for safekeeping. He would delete the periodic table of elements before he deleted even one aspect of her from his mind. He should have done it ages ago but, he realized that night, he'd always been a bit of a coward.

That was how it went after that. Life did return to normal on all other fronts but never again did he want her to live at the periphery like she had before his fall. He'd visited again a few nights later and again, he enjoyed coming home.

The months passed and he continued to visit her flat when he wasn't on cases. She didn't seem to mind the absences. She seemed to accept them just as she accepted him into her morgue and lent her specific skill set to the task of solving mystery after mystery that he brought to her. He found he'd take cases that warranted less than a five if it meant it would let him be nearer to her. Cases were abundant but he always made sure to leave at least a week between them so he could go home.

There was one case that he hadn't been able to solve however. It was the mystery of why she never asked anything of him. He'd seen her date men before. He knew that before, she'd gone out to eat or see some vapid movie at the theater. Maybe she'd only done those due to social custom and didn't see the need with him. He'd made his opinions about just that sort of thing very clear to people in the past, perhaps she'd always felt the same.

If she had asked, he would have gone. He would have taken her to restaurants owned by people he'd aided in the past. He would have made sure that she was given only the best but she never asked. She never asked to go to Baker Street. He might have liked it if she had. Mrs. Hudson asked after Molly from time to time and it might have been nice to see the two women he was rather fond of in his life conversing with one another. He actually wanted to play his violin for her. There were times when he felt as if he could communicate everything he thought of her through one of his compositions, several of which he'd composed specifically with her in mind.

But she never asked and he could only assume it was because she didn't want anything more from him.

He could live with that. He could live with only seeing her occasionally. It would be enough as long as he always knew that at some point, he could go home. He'd just take more cases that needed her assistance and in the between times, he'd go to her.

After a while, however, things started to change. That smile he liked seeing, she stopped giving. She'd open her door and it would be little more than a slight uptick at the corners of her lips. He didn't know what caused it. He didn't know where that smile had gone or why, he just knew that it wasn't for him anymore. She stopped unbuttoning his shirts, just focusing on her own and that moan he liked so much, the one she made right as he connected with her, it went away entirely.

He tried for months to discover what had changed, what had caused some of the things he liked so much about her to disappear but nothing had changed. They were both still doing the same work they always did. They both still had the same… friends that they'd always had. She wasn't sick. No one in her family was sick either. Maybe he'd been saying things to her that he shouldn't so he made sure that John was with them as much as possible. He would tell him of he was being a git even if she wouldn't. For a time, he took fewer of the cases that needed her, thinking that maybe she was just seeing too much of him but it made no difference.

Not long after the smiles disappeared, she stopped enjoying their sexual encounters as well. She wouldn't be ready for him. Before, she'd always been so slick and wet the moment he touched her. He liked running his fingers between her lower lips and feeling just how eager her body was to accept him, to draw him in and surround him in that blissful embrace. She told him that it happened. That it didn't mean anything but it meant something to him.

She wasn't lying to him but for the first time, she wasn't telling him everything either. Still, she didn't say no. She still let him be with her, be in her. She still let him come home even though that home had gotten a little colder than it had been before. It was still enough for him. He might have wanted more but he didn't let himself think about it. He didn't let himself imagine possibilities that she wouldn't entertain. There wasn't any point. It was a waste of time and that was still something he abhorred.

So he stood outside her door and knocked. She answered it promptly and for a moment, she took his breath away. It had been a long time since she'd altered herself like this for him, too long. So long in fact that a split second after seeing her, it sent up red flags. He took what he saw as the safest course of action, or inaction as it were, and simply didn't say anything. She brought him in, fed him what she knew was some of his favorite takeout and served him some red wine, not any red wine either, something expensive, something different from her normal low end faire. He didn't enjoy any of it, too caught up in trying to determine the reasons for this change. Maybe he was off his game but he just couldn't figure it out.

They finished the meal and she took his hand, leading him back to her room without his even needed to ask. Yet another change. He'd always thought he'd be thrilled when, or if, she ever did change something but right now all he felt was a low lying dread. It didn't stop him from taking her though. It didn't stop him from touching every part of her body or sliding within her after she'd applied some of that hateful bottled lubrication.

Never before in any of their couplings had he ever wanted to kiss her as much as he did then. It's why he silently asked her to get on her hands and knees. He didn't trust himself to keep from taking her lips if they'd been face to face. He settled for just pressing his lips against her shoulder. It would have to be enough because she'd never asked him for more.

He tried so hard to make her feel as good as he did when he was inside her. He wanted nothing more than to feel her clench around him, to make all those noises that she used to but as hard as he tried, she didn't respond.

"Don't worry about me, just come."

Those words shouldn't have bothered him the way they did. They shouldn't have caused that tight ache in his chest to grow but they did. He nodded and pushed himself to finish, never fully giving up on bringing her over the precipice with him, not until it was too late. He met his end within her and even though it felt amazing, it didn't leave him feeling content like it normally did. The feeling that something was wrong, that something was very, very wrong would just not go away. It darkened everything that normally felt right about being home with her.

He pulled away and sat back to look at her, to take everything in and try to figure out what was wrong. She took a preplaced shirt from her nightstand and pulled it on, covering herself. That too was new. She never tried to hide her body from his sight before and she'd planned to do so as illustrated by her having placed it there previously for just such a reason. He needed to think about that so he took the opportunity to excuse himself to the restroom. When he came back, he did not like the look on her face, the first thing he hadn't liked about her in a very, very long time.

It pushed him to finally break his silence. "Something has changed."

She looked so apprehensive and so overwhelmingly sad. He wanted to fix it but he found himself frozen from doing anything but waiting for her reply.

"I can't do this anymore."

That made no sense logical sense. He told her as much.

"Of course you can. There is nothing preventing you from doing so." She looked annoyed by that response. He'd somehow said the wrong thing.

"Ok, it's not that I can't, it's that I don't want to anymore."

That ache in his chest that he'd felt since the moment he'd crossed the threshold of her flat suddenly turned cold. She didn't want to…

"Why?" It came out without his thinking it.

"Because I'm not like you. I need more than this."

It hit him like a ton of bricks, like gale force winds. She needed more than him. He wasn't enough. He purposely schooled his features then as best he could despite the torrent of emotions that ached to escape from every part of his being. It was too much. He wasn't used to… _feeling_ this much. He wanted to scream, to take hold of her and never let her go but he just stood there and held everything in. He tried to ask and he did but it felt so worthless as he said it.

"What else do you need?"

"I'm 37. If I want a family, I have to start working towards that. I don't want to do something like kids alone and I know that's not something you want."

How could he deny what she'd just said? She was right. The idea of children from him was not something he wanted. He had no dislike for children in general; he just knew what he was. He knew he said terrible things without even knowing it all the time. He knew he wasn't always reliable when he lost himself in his own projects, experiment and especially his mind. What kind of father would that be? He knew the answer: a terrible one. But beyond his knowledge that he'd make a horrid parental figure was the other fear he harbored. What if the child was like him?

He put on a persona of constant egoism and he knew that those around him believed it, at least most of them did, the ones that didn't count. But it was nothing more than that, a persona. There was a reason he'd spent the majority of his childhood and early adult life entirely alone. Staying far away from people meant less chance of rejection. He'd had enough of that during his school years. He knew what it was like to be him, how hard it was, how lonely it was. He couldn't imagine cursing anyone else with that sort of life, especially not his own flesh and blood.

So he said nothing to her declaration. He had nothing he could say. She was right.

"I have to start looking for someone who wants to do that with me and I can't do that if I'm doing this with you."

Again, he had to work so hard to control his exterior. He didn't even let her words fully sink in. He couldn't contemplate the implication, not there, not with her watching. He tried to deflect, to come back to what he knew, to solving puzzles.

"And this was why you altered your normal appearance and why we had dinner? This was your way of 'letting me down' so to speak?"

She nodded and solved his mystery for him.

"Alright," he said coldly as he worked hard to make his expression entirely blank. "I won't bother you with this anymore."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." The apology rankled. If she were truly sorry, she wouldn't do it.

"Don't be. It was bound to come to a stop at some point. I just never thought it would be you who ended it."

He saw the momentary hurt that crossed her face but this time he'd expected it. He knew it was the wrong thing to say but he'd done it anyway. He wanted her to feel even a fraction of what he was right then. It gave him a tiny amount of satisfaction to do so.

"Well, I'll just be going then."

Then he left. He wandered the city the entire night, finally finding himself in the cemetery where he'd been 'buried'. The gravestone was still there, no one had bothered to remove it even after a full year. He sat down on his own grave and let the tears slid down his face.

A few days later, Lestrade called him and offered him a case. He took it and proceeded to pour himself into his work with a fury he'd never exercised before. He took any and all cases that came his way, never mind how mundane, trivial or boring they might be. They kept him busy and they offered him the opportunity to see her from time to time. She might have cast him aside when she realized that he wasn't enough for her but that didn't mean he wasn't allowed to be around her in an official capacity.

John noticed the change. He wasn't completely useless in the art of deduction. He tried a few times to decipher what caused it but Sherlock had no desire to explain. He didn't want to tell John just how far he'd fallen. He didn't want to admit that he'd been so completely wrong, that the work wasn't actually enough, that he wasn't married to his work any longer. So he brushed off the efforts of his friend with a few well-chosen, scathing words.

Life set into a pattern he could handle for a while. He didn't like it but he could live with it. Then she met _him._ He was certain at first that it would not last. He wasn't right for her, not in the least. He was out of shape, chubby, had an entirely boring profession and… he simply wasn't good enough.

Sherlock then obviously broken into DI Lestrade's criminal database and ran just about every search he could on the man only to come up nothing. Then he used his brother's pass codes and office computer, a markedly more difficult task, to check even further into all forms of government databases but again was met with nothing worth a damned thing.

He was just shutting his brother's system down when the door opened to reveal the elder Holmes

"Did you really think I wouldn't notice? I'm not the county constable, after all."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and moved to leave, only to have his exit blocked by his brother.

"I warned you about sentiment."

He didn't respond but his brother didn't move either. They were silent for a long time before Mycroft sighed far less dramatically than Sherlock might have expected.

"If you have lost her, really lost her, you have no one to blame but yourself."

Sherlock didn't even question how his brother knew. Likely he'd had surveillance of some sort on his pathologist after his 'death'. He'd actually suspected his sibling knew he wasn't dead long before he'd revealed himself. This confirmed that belief.

"Do try not to state the obvious, Mycroft. It detracts from the appearance of brilliance you do try to project."

"This is not the way to gain her back."

"How! If you know, then tell me." He hated how desperate he sounded. The derision he expected from his brother for the outburst never came however. Instead he just looked at him squarely in the eyes and replied.

"Well, speak to her obviously. For someone as intelligent as you are Sherlock, you have an amazing capacity for missing the obvious."

His brother stepped aside and let him leave.

He tried to take his brother's advice over the course of he next several weeks but each time he did, nothing came out of his mouth except the worst of him. Each time he did it, he knew how wrong he was. He didn't need John's reproachful looks or his verbal reprimands to know. He could see the way she cringed; how his words made her look physically smaller until she would just leave the room. He just couldn't help himself. Each time he opened his mouth, all he could think about was the fact that some pudgy imbecile was taking his place. It enraged him and the only outlet he had for the burning sensation in his gut was his words. Then one day he pushed her too far and for the second time since he'd known her, she made him leave. This time, however, he didn't blame her at all.

The days after that were a blur. He had no appetite and he couldn't sleep. Every time it did claim him, his dreams were of nothing but her. Waking from those left him feeling nauseous. The only activity that soothed him at all was his violin. He played for hours at a time until the strings became hot and his fingers bled. He stopped taking cases. He stopped eating. He stopped taking visitors. Even Mrs. Hudson was kept away.

During the day, he stayed in at Baker Street and at night, in order to avoid the pull of sleep, he would walk the streets. It was Mycroft's advice that replayed itself in his head time and time again. Had he missed something obvious when he'd been with her? Was there something he could have done differently? Was there still something he could do to fix this? He couldn't imagine remaining like he was. He thought the initial six months of his 'death' had been hell but they didn't hold a candle to how low he currently felt. He walked back to Baker Street just as the sky started to warm and threw himself onto the couch. He had to do something. He couldn't keep this up indefinitely.

He fell asleep and he dreamt of her. She was smiling at him again as she touched his cheeks and smoothed back his hair. Then she kissed him without asking. He woke up touching his lips.

If he left now, he would catch her still at work. He left his flat wearing what he'd fallen asleep in and caught a cab to Bart's. He managed to slip into her lab without much notice by the rest of the staff and stopped just inside the door. She sat at her desk, transcribing notes from her recorder into a form on her computer. It was so nice to just see her again. She looked well. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail like it normally was when she worked and there was a hint of lipstick on her lips. She didn't notice him at all while he noticed everything about her.

It wasn't until she started proofreading her work that he noticed the final, very vital bit of information. While she read, her right hand kept lightly caressing her clavicles and neck. It wasn't something she did all the time absently. It was something he'd noticed not too long ago. Every time she'd done it before had been at the end of one of his cases. He had always made a point of making what appeared to be an offhand remark to the room that he'd solved the case. He always made sure that when he said it in Bart's, that Molly could hear him. That's when her right hand would unconsciously begin to touch her neck. She knew he would be coming to her that night. Except she was doing it now and despite how much he might have liked for it to be true, he had no plans of visiting her this evening.

She finished her work, shut down her station and left her office only to look like she might have been scared half to death by his presence. He hadn't come here to say the words that came out next but after his last revelation, the just tumbled out.

"You're going to sleep with him."

She looked shocked at first, then a bit angry.

"That's not something I'm willing to discuss with you, Sherlock. Now is there a reason for your being here besides that?"

He noted that she didn't stutter once as she all but dismissed him again. He did have a reason but he didn't know how to put it into words. It didn't help that all he could picture in his mind right then was her with _him_.

"You turned me away but you'll let that loathsome…"

She cut him off before he could continue on that line of thought. He was actually grateful that she did. He didn't know where he would have taken it if allowed to continue.

"Stop. Stop right now. I don't want to know one thing you've deduced about him. Not. One. Thing."

Now there was the rub. He'd not been able to find out one terrible thing about that man. So all he had were physical traits. Maybe he would have said something about his being overweight and how he wouldn't be ideal family material if he died of a heart attack in ten years. He probably would have mentioned it. No, he definitely would have.

"Why are you here?"

He still didn't know how to answer that, so he remained silent lest he say something hurtful.

"I really don't have time for this, Sherlock," she admonished as she started for the door. He didn't move an inch so she had to scoot around him but the moment her hand gripped the knob, his hand fastened tightly to her wrist, stopping her. He didn't do anything else, just kept her from leaving. "Sherlock, let me go." Again, he said nothing, didn't even look at her, his eyes remaining glued to where he was touching her. She sighed and reached out to pry his fingers off of her. "I have to go."

"I don't want you to," he mumbled more to himself than to her.

"What did you just say?"

He debated for too long on whether or not he should repeat himself but when she started to try to leave again, he blurted them out.

"I don't want you to."

It only seemed to increase her ire at him though. He'd said the wrong thing again.

"You're so damned selfish, you know that." All he could do was nod at that. He'd known that for a very long time. "And what about what I want, Sherlock?" He didn't know what she wanted but he knew what he wanted her to want.

"I want you to want me again, like you used to."

"I'm not that girl anymore," she whispered.

He didn't like hearing that. He _liked_ that girl and the prospect that she was gone made his chest ache.

"I made her go away, made you change, didn't I?"

"A lot of things did."

"But mostly because of me, because of how I am."

"Sherlock…"

"I tried," he whispered out pathetically and for the first time since he'd taken hold of her, he looked into her eyes. She looked surprised. Well, that was better than her anger.

"You didn't try hard enough." Now it was his turn to be upset. It wasn't fair, not at all. Everything that happened between, he had done. Maybe he hadn't done it right but he had done it.

"Neither did you."

The surprise was gone and instantly replaced by irritation again. "Excuse me?" He didn't back down from it this time. It was far easier to do this while angry than with the empty feeling he'd been living with for the past six months.

"You never told me what you wanted. You never asked for anything to change. You didn't ask me for anything until you asked me to leave and so I did the only thing you ever asked me to do."

"I…"

"You never said you wanted me to escort you to dinner. You never tried to take me to some ridiculous theater for an equally ridiculous movie. You never asked me to play my violin for you or ask to come to Baker Street. You never did any of those things. I was the only one that ever asked and I was only willing to ask what I knew you would give, had given in the past." He let her go then and strode away from her. It was too much to see that expression on her face. He didn't even know what it meant but it left him feeling far too raw, too exposed.

"I thought that if I asked for more," he looked back at her briefly before he continued to frantically survey the room, "that you would think I was asking for too much."

"What would you have asked for?"

That stopped him dead. What would he have asked for? He knew without a full second passing what he would have asked her for. "I would have asked to kiss you," he barely whispered out. Even now he was afraid of rejection even though he wasn't actually asking it.

"What?" she asked quietly.

"I would have asked to kiss you!" he shouted at the back wall, anger seeping into his voice. "Are you happy? The great Sherlock Holmes brought so low that he has to plead for the affection of the only person who he never thought would stop believing in him?"

"Of course I'm not happy." It sounded like the truth. Could it be?

"Then why did you discard me?"

"I didn't…"

Oh no, she was not going to deny that. That was something he understood implicitly. She most certainly did cut him out of her life just as she would the organs of one of her autopsy patients.

"You did. I was there and I recall it quite clearly, Molly. You are not like me and you needed more than me." He pinched the bridge of his nose then and tightly shut his eyes. "I wasn't enough for you. I always knew I wasn't good enough for you, Molly but I thought…" He didn't finish; instead he rubbed at his eyes with the fingers of one hand for a moment. "And now you've found someone that is enough for you?"

He opened his eyes to look at her earnestly; it was an answer he seemed desperate to know.

"He's…" She hesitated and for a moment he wasn't sure she would answer. "I didn't know."

He knew without asking that she was referring to how he felt, not to that man.

"You didn't know that I needed you?"

She shook her head but said nothing. Did she really not know? Had he been so terrible that he hadn't even been able to communicate to her just how important she'd been to him, that she was the reason he persevered?

"I did," he said quietly. "You were everything that was right when everything else was so wrong. I thought you knew that."

"I did." She looked at him pleadingly then. "I did know that but when everything got better, when you came back with your name cleared and with John and Mrs. Hudson and Greg all safe again, I just… Well, I wasn't the only thing good in your life anymore."

"You didn't stop being important. You still mattered to me." He closed his eyes. "You still do, more than anything, Molly. More than experiments or cases. More than anyone else combined."

She let out a chocked sob and he immediately regretted what he'd just said. He hated to see her cry, especially if he were the cause.

"I'm doing it again. I'm hurting you again, aren't I?"

She shook her head, confusing him.

"No, we're both just such idiots though." His confusion only grew and he couldn't help the way that comment pricked at his pride. He most certainly was not an idiot. He was about to say as much when she reached up with both hands, cupped his cheeks and pulled him down into a kiss.

His world froze. He spent the entirety of it committing it to a crystal clear memory. If he lost her, at least he'd have this to replay in his mind. She pulled away all too soon and all he could think about was the dream he'd had right before he came here.

"You didn't ask," he said quietly.

"No, I didn't," she responded in kind.

At that moment, her phone began to chime in her pocket. She sighed and stepped away from him while he stayed stock-still. He saw the apologetic look she sent his way before she turned her back on him to answer the phone.

"Hi, Mark." He shouldn't be here for this, he suddenly realized. He couldn't be here for this. He wasn't sure what Mycroft had meant. He'd talked to her but nothing had changed. She was still talking to _him_, was still with _him_ and would be with _him_ tonight. At least he'd come away with something, even if it hadn't lasted nearly long enough. He slipped out the door as she spoke into the phone.

He needed his violin and cigarettes, lots and lots of cigarettes

AN: Hello there again. Do not worry, I've decided to extend this story into three parts. I decided that it would be interesting to see the same timeframe again but this time from Sherlock's POV. I'm going to say this right now, he's a hard character to write for. It's hard to write that 'off' quality of him when you're trying to write from behind his eyes. It's too tempting to just make him any other man. I hope I kinda sorta pulled off an aspergers-esque persona. Let me know what you think, the feedback has been amazing!


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Listened to "Nothing Else Matters" (instrumental) by Apocalyptica as I wrote this final segment. Enjoy.

**And Now?**

She rushed home with a knot in her throat that simply refused to go away. Her head ached by the time she stepped into the shower as the pressure behind her eyes only intensified despite her best efforts to block out what had been said between them in the lab only a scant twenty minutes ago.

She refused to think about his words; worried she'd be overcome. It was too little too late, right? If he'd said any of that before, even just one sentence, it might have been enough but now…

Now she was getting ready, prettying herself up for another man, a very different man, one that made her feel…

She shook her head. She had to stop thinking about it. Molly rested her forehead against the door, trying desperately to collect herself before stepping out for the night. Mark was too good of a man to have to put up with the fallout from Sherlock's unexpected and unwanted visit. It was unwanted, wasn't it?

"Stop it!" she shouted at herself before taking a final deep, calming breath and stepping out the door for her date.

She met him at the restaurant where he opened the door for her and he genuinely complimented her on how she looked in her little black dress with such a warm smile and something more in his eyes. This was a look that Sherlock never would have given her. He had only complimented her when he wanted something.

They sat at a cozy little table for two and Mark ordered an expensive bottle of wine. She sipped at it as she tried to listen to what he was saying about his day but try as she might, she couldn't make herself interested. She hoped she was doing a good job of pretending at least, occasionally asking questions like people who were interested would do.

He finished up his explanation of her latest forced question just as their food arrived and gratefully took the opportunity to enjoy the silence knowing he wouldn't ask her about her day over dinner. That wasn't something she often had with Mark, was it? He was a bit of a chatterbox unlike Sherlock who seemed happy to live in a state of silence unless something of import needed to be said.

Molly took a deep swallow of her wine while internally chastising herself for thinking of him yet again. It was wrong. She liked Mark and she continually reminded herself of that fact as he gave her a crooked little smile.

Soon enough the dinner service was cleared away and they each chose a sweet from the desert tray. Once again, Mark was regaling her with another story. This one she found mildly amusing as he spoke of some of his traveling antics with the airlines. She never found any of Sherlock's stories mildly amusing. No, she'd always found them completely fascinating, the same way she found her work fascinating despite its rather macabre nature.

She'd never be able to tell Mark much about her work, he found the entire subject of death a bit off-putting. Before tonight, that fact had never really bothered her because that's how 99% if the people she'd ever met felt but it had never bothered Sherlock.

She pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Something wrong, Molly?"

She snapped her head up as though she'd been caught in the act of doing something terrible. In a way, she had. She'd been thinking about _him _again.

"No, I think I just drank a little too much ice water, brain freeze." She offered by way of explanation. You didn't need to be a consulting detective to sniff out the obviousness of that lie. Mark, bless him, just gave her a small smile and didn't push further.

He was so good to her. Sherlock would have called her out on that in an instant and followed up his deduction with something scathing. Of that, she had no doubt. Internally, she screamed at herself for bringing _him_ up in her mind again as she tried to maintain her outward calm by smoothly dipping her fork into the decadent little slice of rich mocha cake before her.

Thankfully they decided to forgo the little after dinner coffees and Mark once more held the door open for her as they made their way out of the restaurant.

"Share cab?" He asked her and she smiled at him, nodding.

As their cab pulled away from the curb, neither occupant saw the dark coated figure as it hunched against the brick wall of the building across the street.

XxXxX

With the present flow of traffic and the ongoing construction on Oxford Street, it would take between fifteen and seventeen minutes for that cab to reach Molly's flat, twenty if the cabbie decided to get a few more coins out of the couple by taking a slightly more scenic route.

For a long moment, Sherlock considered hailing one of his own and giving the driver the address he'd thought of as home for so long now. He resisted the temptation, knowing that having stood outside the restaurant for the past forty-three minutes was already well within the realm of wrong. He could see John letting out a disapproving sight while shaking his head in his mind's eye as if the married man were standing right next to him. Instead, he turned and began slowly walking in the opposite direction towards Baker St.

"Share a cab." He scoffed to himself. The man lived on the other side of the city, sharing a cab was idiotic. Sherlock let himself believe the man was a moron, not letting himself dwell on the knowledge that the man would not be using a taxi service to get to his flat until the morning. Thinking him a moron was a far better thought, a far less painful thought.

Trying to distract himself from thinking about it further, something he'd been unable to do for weeks, he noted his current speed and deduced that if it remained constant, he'd arrive back at 221b in sixty-eight minutes. He checked his watch to note the time and then continued on his way. Try as he might, he couldn't close off Molly's room in his mind. He'd tried so very hard but every time the door began to swing closed, something would get in the way and halt its progress. He needed it closed. He couldn't handle having it open any longer and having its contents constantly spill into his mind, making him feel things he didn't want to feel and be forced to remember everything he'd lost, that wasn't his anymore. He kept trying but failed every time. The first time he'd tried, it had been a memory of Molly bringing him coffee in the lab a year ago and how she'd accidentally let her fingers touch his as she'd handed it to him.

Absently, he touched his fingers as he walked before trying to close the door again. This time it was an image of her night tousled hair as she sat up in bed, the morning sun streaming in through the window. She'd stretched, lengthening the lines of her torso in such a way that he'd had the sudden desire to sketch her, never mind that his sketch would have resembled nothing more than a stick figure sitting a generic horizon. He'd still felt the desire to do so, to capture the moment on something more tangible than just the memory of his mind.

The third time he tried on his slow walk back to his quiet flat, it had just been a feeling. Contentment. She'd made him feel that. He hadn't even known what it was at first. He'd never before felt the desire to simply exist in the same space as another person. He'd never wanted to just turn his mind off and observe without any motive behind it other than the need to hold onto the feeling of it.

By the time he'd failed a fourth time, the familiar sight of his front steps came into view. As he climbed them, he noted the time. Exactly sixty-eight minutes had passed, at least he could still do something right. He opened the door, passed by 221a and began to ascend darkened stairs when he heard Mrs. Hudson open her door.

"Hello, Sherlock."

"Mrs. Hudson," he greeted without turning around.

"You doing alright, dear? You've not been yourself lately."

Again, he didn't turn and continued his trek, nearing the top now. Not that he ever was but this was definitely a time when he least wanted to talk about how just not alright he was.

"Mrs. Hudson," he repeated her name but this time there was a warning tone behind it.

"Don't worry, things will look up, dear. They always do."

He wasn't going to get into an existential argument with his landlady about how it was a ridiculous notion that things always 'look up'. They most certainly did not, in no way shape or form. In fact, judging by the state of the human condition now and forever in its history, things far more often did not 'look up'. He held it in, far more intent on throwing himself onto his couch than putting words to his thoughts and giving them to his well-meaning landlady. So he chose to remain silent as he traversed the short hall that led to his door. He stopped short just before entering. It was ajar. He never left his door ajar. Mrs. Hudson never left his door ajar.

He welcomed the instant change in his demeanor from forlorn to combat ready. Standing with his legs braced, he used the tips of his fingers to nudge the door just hard enough to open it fully without it banging against the wall. That's when he clearly heard that whoever was in his flat had taken up residence in his kitchen. He had a bit of expensive equipment in there; perhaps he was being burgled. With utter, practiced silence, he grabbed a cane out of the umbrella stand that John had left behind and crept silently across the floor. He leapt to the kitchen's threshold, cane raised offensively and stopped dead.

"Molly?"

In a state of complete disbelief, he watched as Molly Hooper turned around, shakily holding a half drunk cup of coffee in her hands.

"I know I didn't ask if I could pop by and I didn't intend to wait in your flat but Mrs. Hudson can be very persuasive. She was very insistent. Said she couldn't let me wait outside and that she'd invite me into her place but she was doing a bit of entertaining."

She most certainly had not been. She'd been wearing that old gray dress of hers and she never wore that if anyone was coming by. It was what she referred to as her 'lay about' dress. He didn't relay any of this to Molly or anything else for that matter. He didn't respond to her rambling because at this moment, it would have been impossible for him to form words.

"You aren't going to hit me with that, are you?" she asked, eyeing the cane still raised over his head. She laughed nervously after saying it, taking an absent sip of her coffee with still shaking hands.

Immediately, he lowered the cane and then spoke some of the dimmest, most obvious words of his life. He might have felt a bit of embarrassment over them if he weren't still in a state of shock.

"You're here."

She nodded, biting her lips.

"Why?" The incredulous tone of his voice refused to abate even as he confirmed that this was in no way a hallucination.

"Long past due, wouldn't you say?"

He watched as she set down the cup and unnecessarily smoothed down her wrinkle free dress before crossing the many feet that separated them. He dropped the cane to the floor and the damn thing protested too loudly as it clattered to the floor. She stopped just short of touching him and for a moment it seemed she didn't have the courage to look up at him, like she had to build up her resolve before she could. For his part, he made a perfect replica of a statue. He didn't want to say the wrong thing, make the wrong move and chase her away. She was here.

She spoke to his chest, lightly bouncing on the heels of her feet as she did. "Say something. Anything. I didn't know before and I won't know now if you don't say something."

"I'll say something wrong."

Then she looked up at him.

"You always did before," he knew her 'before' meant before his fall, "and you never scared me away. Why do you think that it would now?"

"Before, I didn't know what I had."

And then she gave him that smile, the one he needed like a drowning man needs air.

"And now?" she asked quietly.

"And now you're with someone else."

The smile left and he could have kicked himself. He was right to worry about what he said but then her lips quirked up on one side.

"I thought we'd established that I'm here and by extension, I'm with you."

"You are?" He'd meant to say it as a statement, confirming her observation but that's not the way it came out. She just nodded and closed the rest of the space between them. He could feel the heat of her through his shirt, smell the sweetened coffee on her breath and see the way her mascara has been repaired but imperfectly. She'd cried before she came here. That realization loosened a great knot that had settled in his stomach since he'd spoken with her in the lab.

"May I kiss you?" she asked and with that, the knot was gone.

"You don't have to ask."

"Neither do you."

She lifted herself up onto tiptoes and cupped his face as she carefully pressed her lips against his. Several heartbeats later, Sherlock threw his arms around her, crushing her to him.

_He_ deepened the kiss. _He_ broke away to lay a trail with his lips across her cheek and down to her jaw. _He_ bent down, looped one arm under her buttocks and lifted her into his grasp so he could suckle and nip at her neck. _He_ carried her into his room and laid her down on his bed. _He_ did all of these things and he didn't ask, not once. Not even when he hastily hiked the skirt of her dress around her hips or when he only bothered to unzip and push his slacks down just enough to free himself from their uncomfortable confines and he didn't ask when he simply pushed her panties aside before burying himself within her.

This was where he belonged. That sigh belonged on her lips as well as the moans that followed. Her fingers belonged in his quickly tousled hair and her legs belonged around his hips as he frantically confirmed that this dream was a reality. It all belonged, she to him and him to her.

They had both come home

They would never leave it again.

AN: Sorry for the long wait but I hope that this is a pleasant ending to this overly angsty little fic. Thank you to everyone who read and massive kudos to everyone that took the time to leave a review. As one of my favorite fan fic writers often says, reviews are the only way fan fiction writers get paid. I love each an every one of them.


End file.
